Wonderland
by insomniakitty
Summary: Set in Season 6. Sam and Dean are tracking a group of demons working for Eve when they cross paths with someone from Sam's soulless past.
1. Chapter 1

**PRESENT DAY**

They weaved between flashing cop cars and ducked under the lines of caution tape, badges flashing. "I'm Agent Way, this is Agent Stump. What's going on?"

The police officer's face was pinched and slightly pale. "The Miller family. Mother and two kids missing. What's left of the father is in there." He paused and then said, "I knew them," looking back at the house. "They were a happy family, Harvey was a good man. Worked as a volunteer firefighter down at the station sometimes."

"Mind if we take a look?"

"Go ahead, but it's not pretty."

Sam followed Dean up the front porch stairs and into the house, passing a forensics team snapping on latex gloves and bagging evidence in the hall.

"You know this doesn't fit the pattern," Sam said when they were out of earshot. They both swept the living room with practiced eyes. It was a bloody mess, the furniture mangled and tossed around. Sam's gaze caught on a framed picture resting on a busted shelf, the family smiling out through the broken glass. "This town is out of the way, unless they suddenly decided to double back. Could just be a regular kidnapping—"

"Sam." Dean was crouched in the corner, by the worst of the bloodstains. He held up two dusted fingers. Sam's mouth twisted.

"Sulphur."

* * *

**TWO YEARS EARLIER**

The street was dark except for the pools of light from the streetlamps, what filtered through the bar's grimy windows, and the buzzing neon sign that read TATTOOS & PEIRCINGS. The city rumble seemed muted, far away. It was raining, just drizzling really, but I could feel the moisture soaking into my jacket and dampening my hair. I didn't move.

The tattoo shop was closed, obviously; it was late. But I stared at the empty windows from across the street, my breath catching as I took a step forward. The neon sign flickered.

A couple stumbled out of the bar, music and voices spilling out with them, snapping me out of my trance. I turned quickly, tightening my hands on the handlebars of my bike. _What the hell am I doing?_ I swung my leg back over the seat, unsure when I even got off, and pedaled away hard, forcing myself to fight off the urge to look back.

* * *

The girl unlocks her apartment door with shaking fingers. She is shivering, soaked through and dripping. Outside the rain falls heavily, thunder rumbling across the sky. She puts her keys down on a cluttered side table and slides her soggy backpack off her shoulders. Then she peels off her clothes and leaves everything in a waterlogged heap on the floor.

She wraps her arms around herself and walks across the room. The apartment is small and run-down and full of stuff—mostly books, old and new, stacked haphazardly. A flash of lightning freezes her, illuminating wide, scared eyes half-hidden by her damp hair falling over her pale face.

It's only an instant and then she's back in the dark, hunching her shoulders and turning away from the window. She nearly trips over a pile of books before sinking down on the mattress in the corner. She curls up tightly and closes her eyes. She does not sleep easy; the tension barely leaves her body.

There's a noise in the background that doesn't belong, a high-pitched whine nearly drowned out by the rain. The girl tosses restlessly, kicking off the blankets, a thin sheen of sweat on her face and neck. The noise intensifies and he can hear her ragged breathing.

"Sam..."

He watches from above, as if pinned to the ceiling. The storm rages on outside and the faulty latch on the window rattles. Ominous whispers in ancient tongues filter through the dark and fill the room like an inhale of smoke.

"Sam!"

He's suddenly bolting upright in bed and the disorientation is so strong he can't breathe. Pain spikes across his temples. "Hey, _hey_, talk to me Sammy, what's going on?" There are hands on him, holding him up, touching his face, but he's too dizzy to focus. He gasps, "_Dean_," but the dream pulls him under again with a burst of static in his ears.

Hands snake out of the dark, tightening around her wrists and ankles, pulling until she's spread out and helpless. She struggles, arching off the bed, but it's useless; their touch is poison, black blood filling her veins, crawling through her arms and legs, across her stomach and chest, up her neck and cheeks and into her eyes, like tears in reverse. Her face twists with pain, her mouth opening in a silent scream, and then—

The noise stops. The hands let go and slither back into the shadows. She lies still.

Her eyes open.

* * *

"I thought the vision stuff wasn't happening anymore," Dean said as he paced. "I mean, not since we ganked Yellow-Eyes, and that was years ago—"

Sam sat hunched over on the edge of the bed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's _not_." He could feel a nasty headache gathering like storm clouds behind his eyes and he heaved a sigh.

"So then what the hell?" He stopped short, standing tensely at the end of the bed.

"It was just a dream," Sam said, rubbing a hand over his face.

"A dream," Dean repeated disbelievingly, eyebrows shooting up.

"Yeah, a dream. Not a vision." Dean looked at him for a long few seconds. Sam met his eyes, keeping his face as sincere and reassuring as he could. "Dean, I'm fine."

Dean made a face and blew out a sigh. "One hell of a freakin' dream, man."

"Tell me about it," Sam muttered. A shudder ran down his spine, like cold fingers on the back of his neck. He took a breath. "Look, it's way too early—or late, whatever—to be awake. Let's get a few more hours in, okay?"

Dean watched him carefully. Sam let his shoulders slump, let his exhaustion show, dragging a hand through his hair. Dean hesitated a moment more and then nodded, getting back in his bed. Sam turned off the bedside lamp and rolled over to face the wall.

He listened to Dean settle and tried to do the same. But Sam knew he wasn't going to sleep. When he closed his eyes he still saw hers, open and black as fresh ink, staring up at him.


	2. Chapter 2

**PRESENT DAY**

I watched them walk out of the house, all suited up. _Fucking feds._ They didn't have a goddamn clue what was going on, they never did. The house reeked of sulphur; I could smell it from where I stood, across the street and practically half a block away. _Fucking demons_. They were gone by now, but the place was crawling with the law—looked like I'd have to come back in the dark.

That's when I did a double take. The feds were getting in a car, a classic '67 Impala. I squinted, as if that wasn't unusual enough. "No fucking way," I breathed. Tall, lean. Hair way past FBI regulation length. A slow grin pulled up the corner of my mouth.

"Hey there, Sammy."

* * *

"Something isn't adding up."

If a civilian had walked in their motel room at that moment, Sam was pretty sure they'd both end up in a locked ward. They had books on demonic rituals open on the table next to the laptop and the remains of their dinner, newspaper articles on missing persons cases spanning four different states tacked to the walls.

"No fucking kidding," Dean said. "We've been tracking these demons for _three fucking weeks_, you'd think we'd know what the hell they're doing by now." Three weeks of long car rides through the night only to catch up too late, more people gone without a trace.

Sam huffed. "Alright, let's go over what we _do_ know. A group of demons working for Eve are taking a cross-country road trip, grabbing people as they go. There's nothing linking the victims, their profiles are all different, and until now there hasn't been a kill." He paused.

"Dude, this is pathetic," Dean said, slamming a book shut and shoving away from the table. "By now we should know whether these monsters wear boxers or briefs!" His cell rang suddenly and Dean snatched it up before Sam could reply. "Bobby," Dean barked into the phone, "_please_ tell me you have something."

_"Sorry boys, human is a common ingredient in satanic rituals. They could be doing just about anything."_ Dean swore, looking like he really wanted to kick something. _"But I've managed to narrow it down some, based on what we know. If they need this many bodies, and they're not slowing down on collecting... well, my best guess is they're gearing up to summon something big."_

"Oh, _fantastic_," Dean muttered.

"Something big, like what, Bobby?" Sam asked.

_"No idea. Still lost on that one,"_ Bobby replied. _"Where are you boys, anyway?"_

"We're in Wellsville, a tiny town in Utah," Sam said.

_"Utah? Last I checked the demons were in Colorado, heading east."_

"There was a murder-kidnapping here that I wanted to check out. And I was right," Dean said, shooting Sam a triumphant I-told-you-so look. Sam rolled his eyes. "We found sulphur on the scene."

_"What the hell? So now they're killing people too? This ain't makin' a lick of sense."_

"You're telling us. These demons aren't the usual random-death-and-destruction types," Sam said. "They've got a plan, we've just got to figure out what the hell it is."

_"Well, I'll keep hitting the books. You two be careful."_

"Will do, Bobby," Dean replied, hanging up. He slipped the phone into his pocket and grabbed the sawed-off shotgun off the bed, tucking it into his duffel. "Alright Sammy, you know what's next."

Sam nodded, reaching for his handgun and flask of holy water. "Back to the house."

"Let's find out what got daddy dearest on a demon hit list."

* * *

A sharp push on the splintered front door and it creaked open, nearly off its hinges. My boots crunched on broken glass; the place was completely trashed. _They weren't fuckin' subtle about it, were they. _A deep inhale through my nose and I almost gagged. "Jesus Christ," I coughed. Eau de sulphur, with strong smoky undertones of blood and death. But it told me what I needed to know. _Three—no, four._ I plucked a shattered picture off a shelf that looked like it'd had a body thrown into it. _Four demons for one happy, helpless family. Why does that seem like overkill?_

Upstairs was an even bigger mess than the main floor. Demons liked to tear shit up for fun, but this was intense. Blood streaked the hardwood floor, and there were bullet holes in the drywall. _Huh._ Even more curious—the broken salt line in front of the bedroom. _Not so helpless after all?_

The door was kicked in and I nudged the scattered salt with my toe. My stomach rolled as I stepped into the room. _Yep, definitely not helpless._ The Devil's trap was spray painted onto the hardwood under the rug. It took me two minutes to pull all the stashed weapons the fuzz had missed, which included a handgun loaded with silver bullets, a wicked-sharp little survival knife that I pocketed, and—points for creativity—a cast iron cooking pan. Seems like daddy was a hunter, and maybe mommy knew a thing or two too.

Kneeling beside a suspicious-looking puddle, I dipped a finger in to have a taste. _Mmmm, yes._ Holy water with a hint of demon blood. I spat and wiped my mouth with my sleeve.

That's when the rumble of a classic car pulling up the street caught my ear. _Ah, they're here._

Time to have some fun.


	3. Chapter 3

**PRESENT DAY**

"Streetlights are fried," Dean said, peering out of the window of the Impala. They had parked across from the house, which was layered in shadow. If anything actually creeped him out anymore, he'd say it was creepy. Instead, he got out of the car and walked around to pop the trunk, tossing Sam a flashlight and tucking his handgun into his jacket.

He scanned the street while Sam walked ahead. It was barren; the neighbours had their doors locked and shades drawn down tight, like they could feel the lingering evil echoes. There was hardly any sound but the wind in the trees.

"Dean!" Sam's hissed whisper carried, and Dean turned. "The door is open."

"What the—" Sure enough, the wrecked door was swung wide. Dean hadn't expected to be pulling out his gun so soon, but there it was, held carefully in both hands. They swept the main floor, stepping cautiously to stay quiet. It was empty. A quick gesture and they split, Sam taking the top floor while Dean headed down to the basement.

Sam crept up the stairs, the beam of his flashlight bouncing over the damage, tracking with his gun. It was even worse up here, and he could see how this fight had gone. But he was surprised there had been a fight at all. He was starting to think that _maybe—_

The noise snapped him to attention. A soft thud, coming from the bedroom. His brow creased at the salt on the floor in the doorway. The carpet was shifted, revealing a Devil's trap.

_—these people aren't civilians after all._ Or at least one of them wasn't, and Sam was putting his money on the recently deceased Harvey Miller.

"Trespassing is a criminal offence, you know." Sam spun sharply, gun flying up, heart jumping in his chest. It was a girl, lounging against the door frame. Nonchalant, like there wasn't a smear of someone else's blood on the wall beside her head. Like it wasn't the dead of night, like this wasn't a gruesome crime scene. Long brown hair, leather jacket, torn jeans, scuffed boots. A ghost of a smile played across her mouth.

"Who are you?"

She pushed off the wall, walking towards him. "You don't recognize me? Maybe you should get your eyes checked, Sammy. I haven't changed _that_ much." He frowned, eyes narrowed. _I know her?_ And then it clicked. His stomach flipped. A whole year. A whole year without his soul.

"Look, I had an—an accident. I don't remember—" He took an uneasy step back as she moved closer.

"Interesting. You wanna point that thing somewhere else while we talk about it?" she said. Her words were casual but her hands moved lightning-quick. A sharp pain in his wrist and his gun was falling from nerveless fingers, clattering across the floor. Instinct kicked in—_DANGER TOO CLOSE ATTACK _—and in one motion he had her back against his chest, knife at her throat.

She laughed breathlessly. "Well, you didn't forget how to do that."

"Who are you?" he growled. Her body was relaxed against his, too relaxed for someone with a blade under their chin. She leaned her head back on his shoulder and looked at him out of the corner of her eye, the ghost-smile now a sly grin. Anger was easier than the uncertain fear in the pit of his stomach, and he shook her roughly. "How do you know me?"

"Intimately," she replied, slamming an elbow into his gut. Almost a head shorter than him and slender as a whip, but _damn_ was she strong. The blow knocked the breath out of him and she broke his grip, spinning away. His mind raced. Who was she? _What_ was she? Her eyes danced. "I don't know what game this is, but I'll play. Fair warning though, I may break a few rules."

* * *

At first glance, the basement was painfully normal. Dark, a little damp, a table of tools in one corner, a pile of junk gathering dust in another. Except the metal box. The locked metal box with an ancient Sumerian warding sigil scratched into the top.

Dean hefted the hammer in his hand. A few carefully placed hits and he was tossing the mangled padlock aside. "Jackpot," he said, rummaging through the weapons. Silver knives, guns loaded with silver bullets, iron buckshot, even a wooden stake dipped in god-knows-what's-blood. "Harvey Miller, you bastard," he muttered. Wife, two kids, and this in the basement?

_Lisa and Ben._ He'd been ignoring it, but nothing about this situation sat well with him. This was every nightmare he'd ever had about them, everything he regret about becoming a part of their lives, every reason he had walked away. He clenched his jaw.

A sudden crash from upstairs pulled him to his feet, forgetting the box, pushing Lisa and Ben aside, leaving one thought only—_Sam_.

* * *

The back of his head slammed into the floor, stars bursting across his vision. An instant later he had a forearm pressed against his neck, cutting off his air, his hands effectively pinned above him. He couldn't help the thought—_I'm getting my ass handed to me by a girl, Dean is never going to let me live this down_—even as he struggled to breathe. She leaned over him, straddling his waist.

"Sam," she panted, and there was something about the way she said his name—

Pain exploded behind his eyes.

_Her eyes are sharp, watching him. _

_ He takes the machete from her, their fingers touching._

_ His name leaves her lips on a breath—lips curled in a wicked smile—face freckled with blood—_

_ The blade whistles through the air— _

He gasped, filling starved lungs. The arm was off his neck and the grip on his hands had loosened. "Sam?" He didn't think—couldn't think—just _moved_. The punch connected solidly. She was out before she hit the ground.

"Jesus Christ." Sam twisted towards the voice. Dean stood in the doorway, gun in hand.

"Dean," Sam managed, struggling to sit up. Dean was there a second later, hauling him up. Together they rolled the girl onto her back, her head lolling. Sam wiped the trickle of blood he felt on his upper lip. He was gonna be spectacularly sore in the morning, and the night was far from over.

"Do you know her?" Dean asked.

"I don't know," Sam said, frowning. "But she knew me."

* * *

She slumped in the chair, an impressive bruise blooming on her cheek. Dean whistled. "You gave her one hell of a shiner, Sammy," he said. Sam finished knotting the rope around her ankles and checked her wrists before levering himself up to his feet with a grunt. "Can't believe _she_ managed to kick _your_ ass," Dean snorted. "You've got 80 pounds and a foot and a half on her."

"She's stronger than she looks," Sam shot back defensively. And it was true, she looked harmless. Delicate, almost childlike features—big eyes, a spill of freckles across the bridge of a slightly upturned nose, round cheeks, little pointed chin, pink bow mouth. It was an innocent face, especially unconscious. But Sam was still getting flashes of _lips curled in a wicked smile—face freckled with blood—_

"Alright," Dean said, flask of holy water in hand, "let's find out what we're dealing with."


	4. Chapter 4

**ONE AND A HALF YEARS EARLIER**

_The world is going to hell. My life is going to hell._

Wind whipped down the street. I barely managed to open the door and the bell jangled as it closed behind me. Inside was warm, a bubble of calm air, subdued voices and the buzzing of needles inking skin. It was so disconnected from everything inside me that froze, entirely disoriented.

"Hey," the man behind the desk greeted me, standing and smiling. I stared. His arms were covered, all the way down to his wrists. He said something else but his voice was suddenly far away, because I wasn't looking at him anymore, no, he had stepped to the side and there was a mirror behind him—_I haven't looked in a mirror in three days, not since_—_not since_—

My eyes were wide, too wide, terrified, deeply shadowed—_so little sleep, she haunted my dreams, whispers too loud, I couldn't sleep_—hair a mess, pale skin, gaunt cheeks—when was the last time I ate?—no sleep, she haunted me, whispering, black eyes black eyes _black eyes_—

"—you okay?"

I sucked in a breath, snapping back to reality. "_Yes_, yes, I just—" I laughed nervously. "Just spaced out for a second there, sorry!" He looked like he might ask me to leave, so I pulled out my notebook, trying to hide how badly my hands were shaking. "Here, I have some—I have some designs, some things I wanted to get—"

Days weeks months of compulsive research, pages and pages and pages, every ancient culture every dead language every symbol ritual chant sigil—_protect yourself protect yourself_—drawn over and over and over—

The needle buzzed and broke skin and I could breathe, thawing out on that cracked leather of the chair. Tensed, aching muscles relaxing slowly, mind drifting.

"...storm of the century headed for Chicago..." There was a small TV in the corner, the news anchor's voice breaking through my reverie. "Officials are urging residents to prepare..."

My stomach turned uneasily and something inside me whispered _open your eyes_.

_No, I don't want to, no_—I opened my eyes.

_Look,_ the whisper commanded, _look._

I turned my head slowly, trembling. I watched through the front window as the white classic car pull up, watched as the skeletal man step out, dressed in black, walking with a wooden cane. A silver ring set with a white stone glinted on his right hand.

True terror punched the breath out of me, icy fingers locking around my heart. My vision blurred as the tears spilled over, my mouth half-open in a silent scream.

_This is the end._

**PRESENT DAY**

Holy water to the face was pretty fucking far down on the list of ways I liked to be woken up. On top of that, it felt like my brain had gone a few rounds with the inside of my skull. And my face fucking _hurt_, son of a _bitch_. I groaned.

Someone was yanking up my sleeve and I felt the bite of a silver blade. "If you fuck up my ink I'll kill you," I tried to say, but the words were hard to wrap my tongue around. _I'm slurring._ _Huh, that can't be good._ I coughed, trying to squint the world into focus. It was surprisingly difficult. Dingy motel room, two guys. It took a second but I recognized what was going on.

"I'm human, asshole," I spat. The response was a flashlight in my face, eyelids being pried up. I tried to pull away and became pleasantly aware that I was _tied to a fucking chair_.

"I think you gave her a concussion, Sam." I blinked away the shiny after-images. Jesus Christ, I was being monster-checked by a green-eyed Ken doll, and behind him stood Sam Winchester.

"Yeah, fuck you, Sam," I grunted, struggling against the ropes. "What's with the bondage? And who the hell is this asshole?"

Sam cleared his throat. "This is Dean."

"Your _brother?_ Wife-and-kid, got-out-of-the-life Dean?" I looked Dean over with renewed interest. He was watching me with his arms crossed, face impassive. He had the cut of a life-long hunter—the way he held himself, his stance, the tension across his shoulders. I could see it from a mile away. And the fact that he was packing at least three different weapons. "Nice to meet you, Dean," I said with as much of a lazy grin as I could muster. "I'd shake your hand but—" I tugged against the knots uselessly.

"Alright, enough," Dean said, cutting me off. "My life story is fascinating, but we're here to talk about you. Who are you?"

"Sam didn't tell you about me?" I replied suggestively, sliding my eyes back to Sam. My heart jumped. Hair a little longer, eyes a little—softer? He looked... troubled. I frowned. "Sam," I said, and there was that slur again. "You're different."

"Hey, _hey_." Dean was back in my face, snapping his fingers. "Answer the question." I tried to pull in a deep, exasperated breath, but the ropes around my chest were too tight. My head pounded.

"Alice," I said. "I'm Alice." The room spun slowly and I closed my eyes, sagging forward. "Fuck," I groaned, gritting my teeth. _No fucking way am I gonna pass out like some wilting flower. _"A hunter, like you... Sam. Remember?" Jesus, concentrating was hard. I had to... to remind him. "We went... to Wonderland, down the rabbit hole..." _Oh god, my head..._

"Dean, cut her free."

"What?"

Their voices were suddenly far away, underwater echoes.

"She's concussed and delirious, c'mon."

Gentle hands on me, the _snick_ of a knife, collapsing against a warm body, floating, floating away.

* * *

Sam lay her down carefully on his bed. He'd take the cot tonight. "Any idea what she was talking about?" Dean asked from behind him.

"No," Sam murmured. Her sleeve was pushed up from when Dean checked her, blood still trickling sluggishly. He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket, rolling it and tying it around her forearm. She had a long pale scar there, underneath the ink. He paused, tracing a finger over the tattoo, brow furrowing.

"Well, _good_," Dean said as he walked around to his bed, pointing a finger at Sam. "You know what Death said—" Sam knew where he was going with this.

"Yeah, no scratching the wall," he said absently, and then with more urgency, "Dean, look at this. It's an ancient Roman warding symbol." He'd seen it once before, while doing research for their own anti-possession tattoos. Dean gave him a look like _yeah, so?_ "There's only one book in the world that documents that symbol," Sam said.

Dean looked at him for a long moment and then made a pained face, muttering, "Such a geek, oh my god." Sam blew out a half-annoyed sigh and looked away, back down at her face.

_Who are you?_


End file.
